


Empirical Method

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dominance, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Restraints, Silence Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=27613159#t27613159">this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme:</p><p><i>Sherlock pins John against a wall using the bottom part of his arm across John's upper chest (i.e. his elbow is near one of John's shoulders and his hand near the other). He gives John a furiously-paced handjob (no foreplay or anything like that). There is no reciprocation (or at least not immediate reciprocation).</i></p><p><i>Bonus points if Sherlock stares intently at John's face the whole time.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Empirical Method

They push through the door, breathless and laughing. Sherlock’s shirt is half-untucked, there is dirt streaked down one leg of his trousers, and John’s cardigan has blood (not his) splashed across the chest.

“Oh god. Did you see his face?” John huffs out between panting breaths. Sherlock chuckles deeply as John mimes the rather spectacularly ungraceful way their quarry had stumbled over a conveniently placed bicycle just before they caught him.

They stumble up the stairs together, shoulders pressing together as they pass through the narrow doorway. John makes towards the kitchen – tea, his unfailing response to times of crisis and joy – but Sherlock’s fingers curl around his wrist and pull him back. With one impossibly graceful movement, Sherlock pushes John’s body against the now-closed door, his forearm across the breadth of John’s chest, his face impossibly close. John’s heart rate, which had begun to slow, spikes again in anticipation. Sherlock’s eyes are narrow and appraising; it’s the look he gets when he’s considering the best course of action in a dangerous situation. John’s not entirely sure if there’s a bomb in the kitchen or if Sherlock’s about to kiss him and he’s definitely not sure which idea sends a thrill through his body.

John struggles against him, his shoulders lifting away from the door and his hands pushing Sherlock’s hips away. “Sherlock, what the –” his protest sticks in his throat when he feels Sherlock’s hand on his crotch. His palm presses against John’s half-hard erection – adrenaline, he knows, not the first time he would have had a wank after a chase – with a deliberate firmness. His fingers curl slightly and John’s cock responds. Sherlock pauses; he’s giving John a chance to say no, a chance to push him away. He could, of course – Sherlock is lithe and graceful but John’s muscles are well-toned under his soft jumpers and in a contest of strength he’d beat Sherlock every time. John’s body makes his decision for him, his hips canting forward and shoulders relaxing. Sherlock takes that for his consent – and jesus, it’s more like begging – and pins him more firmly against the door.

His elbow is sharp at John’s shoulder and the slightly damp wool of his jacket sleeve rubs the exposed skin just above John’s collar. His hand grips John’s injured shoulder, thumb somehow pressed right against the gnarled bullet hole even through the layers of fabric, even though he’s never seen it, never seen John without his unassuming armor. With his other hand he deftly undoes John’s fly, pushing his jeans and his plain cotton boxers – subtle blue strip, perfectly ordinary – down in front and taking his cock in hand. John’s fully hard now and he knows it’s not just the adrenaline. Sherlock’s fingers are cold and the sensation on his flesh makes John gasp.

Sherlock grins and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. John finds himself unable to breathe, staring at Sherlock’s spit-slick lower lip, and if his thoughts weren’t before they are now firmly in the realm of the inappropriate. Silently, Sherlock begins to stroke John, fingers wrapped too loosely for proper friction, ghosting over his skin as if making preliminary notes of John’s anatomy and sexual response. He runs the tips of his fingers along John’s raised dorsal vein and thumbs across the glans. Sliding his hand back to the base, he feels down to John’s testicles, which are warm and drawn up with arousal.

John grinds his teeth, impatient and unsure, wanting, needing a touch less _scientific,_ not knowing if something so primal is part of Sherlock’s plan. As if sensing his frustration – and he can, John thinks, Sherlock can read his desire in the angle of his hips, observe his irritation in the tightened muscles of his face, perceive his hesitation in the set of his arms and the clenching of his fists – Sherlock tightens his grip and begins to stroke John in earnest. His hand rolls over the tip of John’s cock, spreading precum over his palm and the slick heat and friction begin to do their job as John feels pleasure building in his gut, heavy and liquid. When John catches his eye, Sherlock is staring intently, cataloging every minute muscle twitch, every breath, all the tiny pieces of evidence that add up to – what? To John, here, falling apart under his flatmate’s hand, wanting something he never dared take, giving in like he does every time Sherlock demands.

John screws his eyes shut and bites down on his lower lip; his mind is screaming _more, more,_ but he tries to stifle his own breathy gasps, tries not to cry out, to beg, to abject himself to his flatmate. His hips involuntarily roll into Sherlock’s fist, desperate for more contact. Sherlock pins his body more firmly against John’s, using his thigh to brace him against the wall and control his movements. John is acutely aware of every minute point of contact between their bodies: Sherlock’s long fingers digging into his shoulder almost painfully, the hard edge of hip against his abdominal muscles, the long stretch of thighs pressed firmly together. With John held in place, Sherlock quickens his strokes; John’s muscles tighten, heat pooling in his gut. He lets out a soft, pleading noise that’s half breath and half Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock’s breath hitches; John opens his eyes and the look on Sherlock’s face sends him over the edge. Lips wet and parted, a flush rising in his cheeks, eyes wide, only a narrow strip of iris around dilated pupils, a damp sheen of sweat on his temples, Sherlock stares at John’s face, enraptured. As if he is the finest mystery, an unexpected and unsolvable agent. John comes with his eyes wide open and locked with Sherlock’s and for a moment, all existence ceases except for a pair of grey eyes, a shivering heat of pressed bodies, and the demanding pulse of desire exploding into bliss.

The world slowly spins back into place as John comes down from orgasm. He’s breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling against Sherlock’s now-slack arm. Sherlock’s eyes flicker, interest starting to fade, and with a desperate thought John crushes their lips together. In his shaky adrenaline come-down he’s lost some precision and the kiss is off-center and has too much teeth and Sherlock’s lack of response has John doubting himself. John pulls back, unsure; Sherlock is frozen, lips parted and eyes appraising. John’s about to push him off when Sherlock presses their lips together again. In their second kiss they fit together much better, lips precise and Sherlock licking into John’s mouth like he’s testing the taste of him. It’s neat and scientific but behind the curiosity John feels the edge of hunger in the controlled scrape of Sherlock’s teeth and his shaky inhalations.

Sherlock pulls back, frowns at the semen splattered across his trousers, and tells John, in a tone that’s quite near fondness, “have a cup of tea and sit down. I’ll need to repeat the experiment in, oh, two hours should do it, to examine your responses at resting adrenaline level.” At John’s strangled attempt at protest, Sherlock grins. “If you’d like, the experiment could be repeated an infinite number of times. Perhaps with other variables introduced. The more data the better, of course.”  



End file.
